My Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My Muse

My Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And I together make demands that often

burden one another in sorrows wept by

both while building words cast from

our souls.

 

My past draws him a picture giving him

sudden thought and through my eyes

causes me to dream bringing sudden

joy so dear to him.

 

The scars and warts I carry, he knows

of them before I ever did, he chose me,

not me him. Yet like a beacon shining

bright he labors like no other can.

 

Praise is shallow for me, for why

would he? Just a reluctant sort he is

to praise me would defile and curse

all that may be dear to him.

 

He is not of my world, simply a

shadowy mist often times pouring

more wine to entice me to run

aground and let the coral crash

my ship and take me to the deep

abyss where total darkness avails

itself and cursed be me who

suffers his toil.

 

I keep coming back to him for

inspiration and like a true master

of his craft he awaits cunningly

smirking with his twisted smile

he freely offers me.

 

Like a squirming snake he hangs

about my neck, pulsating and ready

to squeeze the ink from my veins,

till every last drop is used up on the

silver page of gold trimmed pulp

lying before me.

 

His demands are consistent, yet

praise worthy at times and tempered

with his sarcastic witty jabs, knowing

I am weak and bow before his strength,

I succumb to another work and together

we define each others will.
© Copyright Vincent Moore. All Rights Reserved


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